


A Love like Religion

by hideyourfires



Series: A Love like Religion [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Slow Burn, Sort of a Trespasser AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyourfires/pseuds/hideyourfires
Summary: "I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love.We are good people, and we’ve suffered enough."It was slow at first, the fading, then all at once she was gone. Nobody knows when the cracks began to appear, but once they had taken root it was all too evident. Everything she had once been – a symbol of strength and hope and determination, an unfaltering believer – seemed to have come unravelled in one sharp tug. She fell apart, and all that passion, all that righteous fury, disappeared in an instant.Her lion-heart, her golden boy. Boy with his heart in his hands. Boy with love bleeding out of every open vein. Boy she had loved to ruin, to so total a destruction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'I've got a lover, a love like religion  
> I'm such a fool for sacrifice'

Catlin does not find Cullen in Val Chevin.

She hears whispers – people only ever whisper around her these days, as though she were made of glass and a loud noise might make her shatter. There is no mistaking Harding’s girlish but gruff voice, and Leliana’s silvery timbre in response. They aren’t hiding, and what would be the point? The inquisitor rarely speaks these days – rarely does much of anything, for that matter – and the way she stares emptily into the distance leaves her advisors wondering if she is really there at all. She simply drifts through the halls, or lies in her chambers, or sits in on meetings, silent, for ceremonial value above anything else. She is _busy_ , or _unavailable_ , or just _absent_. The latter is closest to the truth.

It was slow at first, the fading, then all at once she was gone. Nobody knows when the cracks began to appear, but once they had taken root it was all too evident. Everything she had once been – a symbol of strength and hope and determination, an unfaltering believer – seemed to have come unravelled in one sharp tug. She fell apart, and all that passion, all that righteous fury, disappeared in an instant, and apathy took its place.

And yet.

Those words strike something, rattling around and bouncing off the walls of her mind. It lights sparks in places that were dark and thick with dust, untouched for so long she had forgotten their existence. _A Fereldan man, in the final stages of lyrium madness._ Golden eyes flash in her mind, soft curls, a small scar notching an upper lip. She hears his voice, his laughter, sees that boyish smile. Why had she cut herself off from this? Then it hits her again. Guilt. Pain Loss. It’s a punch to the stomach. _Maker have mercy on his soul_ , is the hushed, dulcet response.

Cullen. Her mind has not formed the shape of that name, nor the sound of it, in what feels like decades. In a different life, he had been her greatest preoccupation. Whenever her mind had time to wander, and often when it didn’t, it returned to him. As a child, she had wanted to be a templar, like her elder brother, and as a young woman she had wanted nothing more than to use her sword and shield to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. As inquisitor, her wish had been granted – and then, there he was. She had admired him, of course she had, in the same way that she admired Cassandra; it was never in doubt that he was courageous, and noble, and _good_. But he was also – soft. Those battle-worn hands were made to be gentle, fire-forged into tenderness. She had never wanted anything else before, and then suddenly – suddenly she envisioned herself simply being held. Wrapped up in his arms. Safe, from all the world. She remembers the feelings of guilt, feeling as though she was abandoning her duty, her divine path, over such a selfish distraction.

Her lion-heart, her golden boy. Boy with his heart in his hands. Boy with love bleeding out of every open vein. Boy she had loved to ruin, to so total a destruction.

She had only wanted him safe. She had made a mistake.

And now, it seems, it has claimed him. If only she hadn’t been so selfish. If only she had loved a little less, perhaps then they might have been happy.

Something stirs inside her. It’s old, abandoned, but it’s still there. A small voice in a darkened corner, chained and silenced for so long, whispering, _it doesn’t have to be this way_. It’s hopeful. A spark. She should snuff it out. Again, it whispers, _how long has it been since you last felt anything?_ Maker, it has been so long. She mustn’t kill it now. It flutters in her chest. She allows it to spread, sending ripples through her body. _See?_ _It doesn’t have to hurt._ And it doesn’t. It’s light, dissolving the weights that tugged at her heart. It’s dizzying, and she feels almost bursting with it. _It can be good. You were good, once. You can be good again._ Her heart does not beat; it thrums.

The inquisitor stands. Her limbs are weak, and her jellied legs almost give out from under her, but she must chase this feeling. It may be fleeting, and Maker knows she hasn’t the strength to carry herself alone. As in a dream, she floats through the hallways with weightless legs, barely feeling her footsteps.

She needs armour. She needs to be real again, solid, and she can think of nothing more grounding than the once familiar weight of metal. Simply passing through the armoury door is like breaking through some kind of surface. It smells the same, of sweat and the coppery tang of blood, as though she had last left it just moments ago. The years have been wiped clean from her, and instead of feeling like a ghost, she feels like a body. It is heavy and clumsy, and her fingers shake, but it is real.

With ritual design, she begins to dress herself. Fingers fumbling, bumping into each other, she manages to fasten her breastplate. Already, with just this one addition, she begins to feel more like her past self. It’s tight, suffocatingly so, but she finds it oddly comforting. She can feel sweat begin to gather, hear her own breathing, taste the spit in her mouth. It hits her then, the opposite of numinous – this is her body. Her only body. She will never leave the confines of her flesh, never think with another mind, never see through different eyes. She is a person, and she will only ever live this one life. She is _alive_.

And she is not alone.

Cassandra stares at her, her readied sword and shield dropping to her sides.

“Inquisitor?” Something like hope threatens to break through Cassandra’s voice.

Catlin is focused on her trembling fingers, too dull to manage the finickity buckles of her gauntlets.

“Help me.” Her voice comes out quieter than intended, more needy and weak. What would the herald of Andraste think to see her now, these quivering remains of a person? Would she feel pity? Take mercy on her, and end her life?

_Would she? Would she not offer to carry your burden, as well as her own?_

She would like to think so. She sees her younger self, bright-eyed and innocent. Of course she would not give up on someone. What she would not give to protect that young girl, to keep her eyes shining. Hope whispers again, _She is not lost to you_.

“Of course.” Cassandra says, and begins to aid in dressing her for war. As she buckles the gauntlets in her steady hands, she glances up into Catlin’s face. “May I ask what it is that you intend to do?”

In the presence of another, her old armour biting in all the familiar places, Catlin feels almost completely whole. “If I do not return, assume that I am victorious.”

“And if you do return?”

Catlin looks her in the eye. “If I do return, you will know me to be dead.”

Cassandra regards her for a long time, her jaw set. Catlin is not sure of what to expect. Anger, perhaps? A hearty handshake and a wish of good luck? A stoic nod, and nothing more?

“You’re leaving for good, then. Will I not see you again?”

“In the next life, perhaps.” There are a thousand things she might have said, once. She might have reached out, spoken some genuine sentiment, shared a joke or even teased her. Back then, she probably wouldn’t have left. Back then, she wouldn’t have let things fall apart so badly. And yet she had, and now she has to leave.

“Take care, Inquisitor. Maker protect you.”

Catlin turns to leave. She almost gets to the door when Cassandra calls out.

“Inquisitor – Catlin – wait, I…” Cassandra falters. Then, it seems inspiration hits her, and she reaches inside her shirt and retrieves a necklace, or rather a fine chain with a gold ring looped through the middle like a pendant. “Please, take this. It was Anthony’s. Or rather, it was my father’s, then his. It has protected me over the years, and now I want you to have it.”

She loops the chain into her hand, and closes her fist around it.

“Take care of it. And bring it back to me.”

Catlin finds her old horse in the stable. It’s off-white, pale gold, a breed native to the Free Marches. It had always reminded her of home. It whinnies and snorts when it sees her, and lays her hand on its long face to calm it. It has been well cared for in her absence, and she feels stirrings of guilt at the thought of her abandonment. “I’m here now,” She whispers. “I’m back.”

Riding comes naturally. She was raised on horseback, treasures memories of her brother lifting her into a saddle and leading her around the meadows in Ostwick. It feels good to have the wind in her hair once again, to feel unbound.

She travels the Storm Coast, follows the Walking Sea past Halamshiral, Lydes, Verchiel, and crosses the river that leads to Lake Celestine at it’s lowest point. She rides on, past Val Royeaux, towards the Nevarran border, and finally, finally, she reaches her destination.

She does not find Cullen in Val Chevin.

She finds a man with clouded golden eyes, honey-blonde hair long and tangled. His clothes are ragged and he lies in the dirt, a far-gone look across his features. His fingers curl listlessly, reaching for something that is not there.

She kneels beside him in the dirt. Brushes the hair from his eyes. Calls to him, softly. He drags his eyes to her, but even then they seem to stare past, blank. She had prepared herself for this, knew that it was coming; she knows that the lyrium madness takes all, that he would barely know himself. That doesn’t stop it from hurting.

The pinprick of hope is gone. She is a woman in a scarred, aching body, bent to breaking and so tired it feels if she lays down to rest her bones will turn to dust. She aches to lie down beside him, curl into him the way she once did and give in.

She strokes a hand along his cheek. “What have I done to you?”

A familiar voice says, “It would be kinder to kill him.”

She looks up, and behind the dying man stands Cole.

 _Cole_. Her disappearing guide, the light that led her out of the clutches of darkness, a quiet voice and a hand to hold. His vague face, his indiscernible features, his name always on the tip of her tongue.

She had forgotten him.

“That’s what she thought.” He continues. “She reached for her knife, gripped her fingers around the hilt. It would be clean, and she knew it to be right. Then she looked down, and saw him. A friend. She couldn’t do it.” He crouches low, miming the actions he described. “So she dropped him some coins, and she left. He was too far gone. There was nothing she could do for him. That’s what she said, over and over, as she walked away.”

She knew this already, though not in such vibrant detail. Catlin recalls an old thought, wandering how old the dwarven woman was. At times, she seemed young, blushing and sweet, and at other times she seemed ancient, wise.

“Lace.” Cole says, and taps a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret.”

“Was she right?” Catlin asks.

“What is kindness, and when?” He looks at her, his ambiguously pale eyes piercing her. “Yes. Her hands could not save him. His suffering would end with a swift knife to the ribs, and it would save him from the pain yet to come. He is waded in too deep.”

Catlin tries to decipher his meaning. She knows to listen to his every word, never to dispense of the things that didn’t seem significant. If it isn’t important, he wouldn’t have spoken. There was a time when she felt she almost understood him, when he was more solid and her mind better fixed for riddles. Now it feels as though she is untangling a knot.

He must hear her struggle, because he lays his hands on hers and leans in close. “He is dying and not dying, and you are not her. It rests on your shoulders.”

“You said he’s in too deep.”

“Lost ships at sea are doomed to wreck until they are led to shore.”

Catlin looks down at the ruined man. The lips she once kissed, that once laughed, and curled into a sweet smile at the sight of her.

“Can you help me carry him?”

“As best as I can.”

Catlin does not find Cullen in Val Chevin.

She finds his body.


	2. Chapter 2

A carriage breaks down across the square. It is mysteriously fixed upon their arrival.

“He’s having an affair.” Says Cole’s voice in Catlin’s ear. “And the driver overworks his horses.”

A man abandons his room, without saying a word, at a boarding house in Nevarra.

“His wife needs him.” Cole whispers.

Cole helps carry him up to the room, and the landlady appears to forget her new borders even as she looks at them. Together, they lay him down gently onto the bed.

Catlin takes up residence in an old armchair, drawing her legs into her torso and curling up beneath an embroidered blanket. She listens to the ebb and flow of Cullen’s breathing, reassured by its constancy, and her mind slips away. It wanders to the meadows of her childhood, to Ostwick, her home. As a child, she had loved to explore; she used to pretend she was an adventurer, a templar on a special mission, take a horse from the stables when no one was looking and ride out past the boundary in which her mother permitted her to play. She had found the ruins of an old castle, an entry way to the deep roads that had collapsed in on itself, and an abandoned mine, but her favourite by far had been the meadow. The ruins were interesting, history in physical form, the mystery of the deep roads was intoxicating, and the mine was an adventure waiting to be had – but the meadow was _magical_. It was so quiet and peaceful, she could lie in the grass for hours and stare idly at the sky. It was her respite. Away from corsets, and balls, and being proper. She could manage polite and civil, but charismatic? Holding pleasant conversation, going around and round in the same dull little circles? That was beyond her. But there, she didn’t need to be anything. There, lying amongst the forget-me-nots, she was free of all duties. She was free to be herself.

“He’d like it there.” Cole says, manifesting beside her. Perhaps he has been there all along.

It has always been at the back of her mind. Ever since she had first loved him, she had imagined returning home with him. As silly as it had been, the thought of showing him the meadow – and even lying in the grass with him – had been a secret desire of hers. To be herself, only, and for him to be free of any duty or feelings of responsibility, allowing him to let his guard down, to let go of all things but happiness… How naïve she had once been. And yet, broken, and at the end of a very long tether, her first thought had been the meadow.

“I hope so.” Catlin replies. “The Free Marches carry some dark memories for him.”

She looks down at the man on the bed. “Am I being selfish?”

“You want him to be happy.” Cole replies, simply. “It’s the happiest place you know.”

She hopes that he’s right.

Catlin doesn’t remember going to sleep, but she wakes to the sound of heavy breathing. He’s gasping, his lungs rattling in between. His chest heaves laboriously.

Catlin springs out of her seat. His brow is slick with sweat, yet his frame is wracked with shivering. She reaches for him before realising she has no idea what she even intends to do, much less what she is supposed to do. She looks around, wildly, for Cole, at which point he appears beside her.

“Knife twisting in his eye socket. Too bright, too sharp, too _much_. Why is it so cold? Tongue dry, everything itching. He needs it. He needs it he needs it he needs it he _needs it_.” His voice breaks off into a hiss. “Why won’t you give it to him?”

Catlin blows out the candles. Then, she puts her hand on his head – it burns hot against her palm.

“He’s burning up.” She says, mostly to herself. “He has a fever.”

She knows that he isn’t really cold, just that he thinks he is, but she’s not sure whether to wrap him in blankets or douse him in cool water. She tries to think back to her childhood, when she herself had been ill, and tries to remember what her mother did for her.

“You were cold in your nightdress,” Cole submits. “Yet your hair was sticking to your forehead. Icy hands on your skin felt like a blessing.”

Cold, then. She looks at his clothing – a thick, woollen jumper, and canvas trousers.

Maker, she’s going to have to remove them. She begs for forgiveness in her head, then gingerly begins to undress him. She says a silent prayer when she unfastens his pants to find he is wearing loose-fitting shorts underneath. Even so, it feels wrong, as though he is somehow more naked than naked. She’s seen him nude before, of course – in parts, at least; it was usually too urgent, on stolen time, to unfasten everything – but that almost makes it worse. Last time she saw this much of him, she was also undressed, her flesh pressed against his. Disgusted at herself, she banishes such thoughts, and keeps her eyes pointedly on his face.

Cole serves as something of an intimacy buffer.

She wets a rag and presses it to his forehead. His eyes close, seemingly grateful, despite his shivering. Then, all that’s left to do is wait. For hours, she sits at his bedside, reapplying the wet rag and occasionally bringing water to his lips to drink. When dawn finally comes around, light pouring in through the window, his fever has broken and he doses lightly. Catlin fights to keep her eyes open, but she finds herself nodding off, and wakes a few hours later with her head in her folded arms, resting on top of the bed. The embroidered blanket is around her shoulders, but she doesn’t remember putting it there. It’s odd, but she chalks it up to being near delirious with tiredness or simply just forgetting, caught up in the chaos.

She stays for another day, and spends it caring for him. He is mostly unconscious, with brief intervals in which he wakes, but even then he seems exhausted, or, more terrifying, physically incapable of speaking or moving or thinking. Fear is beginning to creep in, settling heavy in her chest, when finally, _finally_ , she dampens the rag once more and lays it again across his brow, and in a slurred, sleep-muffled voice he utters, “Thank you.”

It sounds like him. She doesn’t know why it comes as a surprise, but it does. The deep tone reverberates through her bones, and stirs a thousand memories in her. His husky voice in her ear, half-asleep, his grumbling at the winter ball, laughter in his words when he is surprised, worry when he sees her hurt. In the low lamp-light, she finds herself crying at this small, left-over fragment of Cullen in his broken body.

That night, she gets on her knees and prays. She hasn’t done it in a long time. It’s muscle memory, old machinery, but since the inquisition – since the number of sacrifices began to stack up, outweighing the victories until every success felt dirty, and lost all meaning -  it has felt empty. She can’t pinpoint the exact moment when the doubts took root, but she remembers getting down on her knees one day and knowing nobody was there to answer her. She had searched herself for injury, some kind of pain at the realisation, but found instead that she no longer cared if the Maker existed or not, and didn’t care to find out the truth. Now, though, she is willing to try anything.

And so she clasps her hands together, closes her eyes, and tries to find the right words to say, to feel that old magic that had captivated her as a child. She thinks of reciting some chant, searches herself for a prayer, but all that comes to mind is _Maker, please let him be happy_. It feels true, the most genuine prayer she has made in a long time, so she clings to it.

_Return him to me. Let him smile. Let him laugh once again. Allow him some small piece of happiness. Please, please, just let him be happy._

In the morning, she lifts him off the bed and slings his arm around her shoulder, half-carrying, half-dragging him out of the doorway. He's lost weight, that's certain, but she doesn't remember him being quite this heavy when she first carried him, just days earlier. And how in the void had she managed to lug him up all those stairs? She adjusts her grip, tries to wrap her arms around his middle and drag him that way (which still doesn't work - he's far too tall) before resigning herself to the fate of awkwardly hooking him under his armpits and towing him backwards, his feet bumping down every step. If he could only see her now, he would probably be laughing, seeing her slight frame struggling with him. She tries to find comfort in that.

She turns back to look into the empty room. She doesn’t know why exactly, but she feels as though she needs to speak, as if there has been something she has been meaning to say for a long time. It doesn’t come to her, not completely, but she finds something that feels right. "Goodbye," She says, to no-one in particular, and then, for some reason, she adds, "Thank you." Then she turns, and begins her careful descent.


End file.
